My Beloved by Karen Ranney Read Free Book Online Page B

bark of an oak tree. The gall forms around the egg.”
    â€œFor what purpose do you want such things?”
    She looked down at the basket. “To make ink.” She extracted one from beneath the lichen. It looked like a small ball of bark with a protrusion on one end. That was not what fascinated him. It was the visible tremor of her fingers. She was frightened, even now.
    â€œWhat do you do once you have them?”
    â€œBoil them. Then add a quantity of wine, and just the right amount of rust.”
    â€œAnd this ink is stable? It does not change color?”
    â€œOnly at first, my lord. But once on the page it remains stable.” She did not raise her head as she spoke, but seemed to address the basket.
    He turned to leave. It was a kindness he did her. Once, women had smiled at him, had coaxed him into their beds and occasionally into their hearts. He had taken for granted the ease with which he’d enjoyed the carnal sports, the utter delight he’d taken in mitigating his occasional loneliness in the soft willing flesh of a compliant woman. He would never have it again. Memory would have to serve. Or like now, conjecture.
    â€œHave I done something to displease you, my lord?”
    He turned. She was looking at him, her green eyes wide and bright.
    â€œAre we to behave as strangers? If we cannot be man and wife, can’t we at least be friends?”
    â€œFriends?” he asked.
    She took one step toward him, so slowly and hesitantly that he had a chance to move away before she came closer. He did so, even as he damned the necessity of it. Her flush told him she’d noticed the gesture.
    â€œIf nothing else, my lord, can we not converse from time to time?” Her words stumbled to a halt. She looked down at the floor.
    â€œYou wish to talk with me?” The idea was so novel that he wanted to tip her chin up and see her face again, read the truth of her request in her eyes.
    Her nod was a sharp little acknowledgment.
    â€œIs there no one you’ve found to be your friend at Langlinais?”
    â€œPeople cease speaking when I enter the great hall,” she said. “Or else they wish to serve me.”
    â€œThis displeases you?”
    â€œI do not feel comfortable with such constant subservience, my lord.”
    â€œYet you show the same to me.” She glanced up at him, surprised. “My name is Sebastian.”
    Silence, while she stood there, mute. He was too patient. He should have left the room, but instead, he questioned her further.
    â€œAre you not afraid of me, Juliana?” Unbidden, his curiosity bobbed free again.
    She straightened, but he was aware that her grip upon the basket was even tighter, so punishing he could see the whiteness of her knuckles.
    â€œYes,” she breathed. “I am.”
    â€œAnd yet you would converse with me.”
    â€œIt is just that I am not used to such solitude.” She moved, then, a small step. Not toward him, but away.
    â€œDo you not converse with Grazide?”
    â€œRather she talks at me, my lord—Sebastian,” she said, correcting herself quickly. She looked up then. It was the first time he’d seen a ghost of a smile on her lips. It made her beautiful.
    Unexpected amusement quirked his lips. “She has not changed much, then, from the spirited girl I remember,” he mused aloud. “If such a thing were to happen, what would we discuss?” He directed the question to her.
    Her expression was too open, too vulnerable. He wanted to tell her that the question did not warrant such a look of gratitude. He had not yet decided ifmaking a companion of her would be merely kind or absurdly foolish.
    â€œAre there acceptable topics I should proffer?”
    â€œThe weather,” he said, without a pause. “And politics, because I enjoy a good argument. Aristotle’s Logic and Metaphysics . Averroes and Maimonides, Charlemagne, the shocking Eleanor of Aquitaine, or